Two Turtledoves (5 page)

Any hope she was holding onto that she might be able
to arouse some flicker of jealousy, some signal that he might carry
a secret tender for her, even a glimpse of concern for her welfare,
was thoroughly dashed as she followed Tristan's unstable lead about
the dance floor.

Tears burned behind her eyes, but she refused to give
them leave to flow. Not here. Not where the duke might see. Where
he might think she truly was still only an emotional child.
Instead, Anastasia swallowed back the dry lump in her throat and
forced her mind to focus on the steps of the dance, which were
becoming increasingly difficult with such an inebriated
partner.

Just when she was certain Tristan would surely slump
to the floor, she heard a thickly accented, deep voice break in.
"Pardon me, Markham, I would like to dance with this lovely lady if
I may."

Tristan glanced at him through glassy eyes and smiled
wide in recognition. "Ah, Tenorio. Just in time." With a grand
sweeping gesture, he offered his place in the dance to the suave
Spaniard and staggered to the nearest seat.

Left alone with a complete stranger, Anastasia could
feel her face burning to deep crimson. What just transpired could
hardly count as an introduction, and yet of all the gentlemen in
the room, he was the only one to come to her rescue. Not that she
was ever in any real danger from Tristan. She knew that.

But they didn't.

And certainly Baldwyn couldn't have known.

"I apologize,
señorita
, for the inadequate
introduction, but I could not in good conscience allow you to be
treated in such a fashion." His eyes were black as night, but they
gleamed with admiration as he gazed into Anastasia's. "I am
Santiago Tenorio, the son of the Spanish emissary to the Crown. May
I ask your name?"

"You may call me Lady Anastasia. My father is the
Earl of Marks." Mr. Tenorio's gaze seemed to scorch her as she
spoke, forcing her to avert her own. His olive skin and wavy black
hair cut a striking figure, stealing her breath away as they
danced.

When the music came to an end, the Spaniard bent over
her hand, pressing a lingering kiss to her glove, before lifting
his dark eyes again to her face.

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Anastasia." Her name
dripped off his tongue in an accent that turned her knees to warm
porridge. The sensation spread through her, warming her throughout,
causing her to fan herself involuntarily.

"It is rather stifling in here this evening. Would
you care for some fresh air,
señorita?
"

It was stifling in the ballroom. She had thought so
only moments ago as she listened to the dowager drone on and on
about the wedding preparations. And fresh air sounded so lovely and
inviting in that accent. Baldwyn had yet to notice her. Perhaps her
whole life had been leading to that moment. Mr. Tenorio was
gallant. He was dark and handsome. And he alone had saved her from
the would-be ravishing of a drunken rake.

A small electric thrill pulsed through her as she
accepted the Spaniard's proffered arm and allowed him to guide her
onto the terrace, down the icy stairs, and into the snow-encrusted
garden.

****

From the corner of his eye, Baldwyn saw the Spaniard
escort Lady Anastasia out onto the terrace. He had become quite
adept at keeping tabs on her in such a short amount of time.
Strange, since his only aspiration at present was to determine the
best course of action to find his way out of the engagement. Why
should he care if his
fiancée
took fresh air with the
Spaniard?

Because she was his. That was reason enough.

But he had also heard stories. Tenorio. A man of
great talent where ladies were concerned. And with his thick
romantic accent oozing from his every Spanish pore, the reputation
was of little wonder.

Baldwyn knew that a lady who had ensnared a duke
would be a complete fool to jeopardize the match — on the day of
their engagement, no less. So why could he feel the burning ire
surging to his heart?

"Don't you agree, Paisley?" Renwick's brusque voice
broke into his thoughts. Baldwyn hadn't heard a word of what the
earl had spoken.

"Yes. Yes, of course," he answered curtly and glanced
back toward his companions. "Will you excuse me, Renwick?
Rawlings." He offered a brief nod and trudged in the direction of
Montmouth's study. Certainly there was another drop or two in the
bottle he and Benedict had efficiently polished off earlier in the
evening.

It was lovely out in the garden, though bitterly
cold. The moonlight reflected on the crystalline frost, glistening
like a bouquet of diamonds.

Diamonds.

The thought drew Anastasia's attention back to the
ring on her left hand. The ring that had been offered to her with
all the care of a plow horse in a China shop. A sentiment that
hardly matched the beauty of the heirloom. A deep blue sapphire
laid in a wreath of brilliant diamonds, all set in a filigreed gold
band, cast to look like autumn leaves.

"It is a lovely token,
señorita
." Her
companion's voice shattered her silent reflection, reminding her
that she was not alone.

"Thank you, Mr. Tenorio." A wistful sigh escaped her
throat as she cast another lingering glance at the jewel on her
hand.

"Pardon me,
señorita
, but you do not seem as
happy as I imagine a newly betrothed lady to be." He stopped
abruptly in the garden path and faced Anastasia, capturing her hand
in his. Very forward. Even for a Spaniard.

"Do I not? How very odd." She gently slipped her hand
from his grasp. No matter how horrible Baldwyn had behaved, Mr.
Tenorio should not be allowed such liberties. Not with a lady
betrothed to another. "I am deliriously happy."

"My apology, then, for the mistaken observation. You
sighed so sadly just now, I thought perhaps it was a match that did
not please you."

His dark gaze bore into her, as though he could read
her deepest thoughts — the bitter disappointment must have been
written across her face. For the first time, Anastasia realized she
was alone with him. Outside. In the dark. On the night of her
engagement.

An icy chill shot through her and she shivered
against it. How had she allowed it to happen? Inwardly, she cursed
her own stupidity.

Even as she questioned it, she knew. Baldwyn's
rejection, her shattered romantic dream, a handsome stranger coming
to her rescue. A glance at her companion told her he had read all
those things in her before he ever stepped in to dance with her.
She was naught but prey to a discerning rake.

Mr. Tenorio took a step closer. "Are you cold,
amor?
" The predatory glint in his eyes warned her of his
intent to remedy the situation.

"No. Thank you, sir, for your concern. I am quite
comfortable." Fear cracked her voice, and she struggled to project
a confidence that was rapidly dissolving in the danger that
threatened her. A step backward put the needed space between them,
but he immediately closed the gap.

"
Señorita
…" He spoke in a low whisper. His
Spanish charm dripped from every syllable of the word. "Surely you
tremble with cold."

Anastasia retreated once more. He followed, matching
her step for step. Ever so slowly backing her into a darkened
gazebo. Her heart raced.

"Don't be afraid,
amor.
I wish only to warm
you and protect you from the winter chill." He reached for her arm,
but with a clever turn, she spun free of his grasp.

"Perhaps we should return indoors. I would certainly
enjoy some hot wassail. Wouldn't you?" Her voice cracked again, as
steadily she drew away from her assailant.

"You are quick, sweet dove, but there is no need to
take flight." His smooth movement toward her and the alluring
warmth of his voice lulled her. Another step. She must get
away.

With a solid
thunk
she found herself backed up
against a wooden balustrade, unable to retreat further. Her breath
caught in her throat with an audible gasp.

A grin crept wide across the man's face as he closed
the narrow space between them and wrapped his fingers tightly
around each of her arms. Now there was no escape. She would be
ruined. And any chance she had for happiness with Baldwyn would
dissipate like smoke curling from the chimney.

"Please, Mr. Tenorio. I wish to return to the dance."
Her voice was hardly a whisper. If she could only find it again,
she might scream.

"In time," he murmured as he pulled her against
him.

"If you do not release me, sir, I shall scream," she
insisted, though so softly, he no doubt took it as an
invitation.

He laughed, drawing closer to her. "Come now,
amor
, do not be coy. I can see you are in need of my
warmth."

As if in slow motion, his head descended toward her,
his eyes intent on her lips. Fear in the face of inevitable ruin,
the fate that was worse than death — her body reacted as though an
involuntary force, and she struggled violently against him. A
fervent voice shattered the silence encompassing them. And it was
several moments before she realized the screaming she heard was her
own, as though she were viewing the scene from a balcony seat at
the opera.

"No! No! Let me go!" Anastasia's insistent wail
brought her spirit sailing back down from the rafters, jolting her
into the present danger. She wrenched an arm from his vice-like
grip and swung at him with all her might.

Her attacker caught her arm mid-swing and laughed
heartily in her face. "Your spirit simply makes this more
interesting,
señorita
. So fight on,
amor.
The music
is too loud, and the night too cold. No one shall hear your cries
but me."

He released his grasp on her wrists then, but only to
wrap his arms around her, immobilizing her completely. When his
lips crushed onto hers, her mind screamed in fury. The depraved cur
was stealing from her what she had saved her entire life to offer
only to her duke. For Baldwyn alone. Her whole body revolted
against the vile sensation, the taste of his Spanish accent. Bile
rose in her throat, and she had no intention of holding it back,
should it come with urgency.

Inexhaustibly she struggled against his hold on her.
With every chance for air, she screamed her protest. With every
chance for movement, she pounded him with her fists. Until he
seemed to weary of her fight.

"Enough!" He railed and twisted her arms, sending
sharp pains stabbing through her with vicious intensity until she
had no choice but to fall to her knees at his feet. "And now we
shall see." The wicked gleam in his eye danced in the darkness held
there.

"Yes, we shall!" Another voice echoed over her.
Before she knew what was happening, someone grabbed Mr. Tenorio by
the shoulder and spun him around to meet with a bone-shattering
blow, delivered sharply to the man's jaw.

Another scream escaped Anastasia's throat as her
assailant crumpled to the ground unconscious.

She leapt to her feet and covered her mouth with both
hands. Her gaze darted to her savior, who loomed over his quarry,
panting as though out of breath.

He had come. Baldwyn had saved her.

The reality of her ordeal slammed her with full force
then, and she threw herself into Baldwyn's arms, clutching at him
for dear life.

The tears flowed on their own. She could hardly stop
them. How close she had come! How close she had been to—

She dared not give voice to the truth. All she could
do was cling to her rescuer as though life would end otherwise.

When he wrapped his arms around her, the warmth from
his frame spread through her, chasing away both the chill of the
winter night and the icy fear that had frozen the blood in her
veins.

Slowly he swept her into his arms and carried her
toward the house with a deliberate stride, murmuring softly in her
ear, "It's over now. All is well." His native Scottish accent
seemed to grow more evident as he spoke, and the words seeped into
her every pore, soothing her simpering breath, melting away her
fears.

Anastasia buried her face against his neck and
breathed him in. The smell of safety. Protection. The smell of a
knight in shining armor. The smell of sandalwood and nutmeg. How
she loved that smell.

The warmth emanating from the grate in the dark room
welcomed them as Baldwyn stepped inside and set her on her feet.
Lord Montmouth's library. They had come through a side door, just
out of sight of the balcony but with a grand view of the gazebo
where she had only moments ago been held captive.

His hands remained on her shoulders, as though to
steady her. She lifted her gaze to meet his. His clear blue eyes
shone with concern, but a veiled hint of fear seemed to hang there
as well.

He truly was her knight in shining armor. The one who
would ride in on a gleaming white stallion when she needed him most
and carry her off to safety. Was it so wrong to want to stay in the
comfort of his arms? Even if it meant only a few more minutes of
the safety of his embrace?

Disappointment flared in her chest when he
relinquished his hold on her shoulders, but instead of leaving, he
cradled her head in his hands and sighed, gently wiping a stray
tear from her cheek with a soft brush of his thumb.

"Did he harm you?"

She shook her head, positively transfixed by the
concern in his deep blue eyes, an involuntary shiver made its way
down her spine. Only a slight tremble, yet enough for him to take
notice.

Baldwyn cursed. "You're shaking like a leaf." He
pulled her closer still, close enough to share the heat radiating
from him. He inclined his head toward hers and pressed his lips
against her forehead. She closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the
tenderness in the delivery of the kiss.